


To Thine Own Self

by triedunture



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Clones, Doppelganger, Frottage, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muzzle Kink, Non-Penetrative Sex, Psychological Trauma, Wall Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the anon prompt: Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier. Some kind of clone or time travel or whatever situation involving selfcest. (Younger? Pre-war? Post-WWII? Even Post-TWS?) Bucky recognizes his doubled self as the Winter Soldier, who insists on keeping the mask on while they get down to business.</p>
<p>This is clones, post-WWII, Hydra bad times-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Thine Own Self

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [К самому себе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12923157) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



He's injured while on a mission and barely survives the journey back to the nearest base. The white coats seem surprised to see him when he limps in, bleeding from a deep wound. "Oh. We didn't think—" They look to their superiors, the ones in the grey suits. Shrugs and vague gestures. They tell him, come with us. 

He goes. The Winter Soldier follows orders. 

They've patched him up before, but it's never been this bad. He can feel himself nearly drowning into blackness, spots crowding his vision. But he made it back. They'll fix him. They'd never let their best tool go dull with rust, would they?

He's led to a room, not the room where they've stitched him back together before, but he doesn't question it. Things change in between--the time he loses in the biting cold makes it impossible to know what's real anymore. The room is dark, but he doesn't question it. They tell him to sit on the metal table, and he doesn't question it. 

They leave him in there. They lock the door. 

That's when the Winter Soldier questions it. 

Animal survival is a difficult instinct to quell, even with all their tests and training. He stands to cross the room, to try the door, to hopefully get help for his wounds. That's when he sees the shape in the corner break free of the shadows. 

"Oh god," his fellow prisoner says, and the Soldier stares into a face he recognizes. Possibly the only face he recognizes anymore: it's the one that stares back at him in the glass of his cold jail cell when they put him on ice. It's his own face, his own shaggy hair, his own wide eyes. They forged him from the same mold, a second Soldier to fight the silent war.

"They weren't lying." His reflection approaches, pale and naked, shivering in the chill of the room. "You're— Jesus, no." His hand comes up, touches the Soldier's bruised cheek. "This can't be happening." He holds his face in his palms. His hands mirror the Soldier's too: one ice-cold metal, one warm and human. They feel pleasant on his face.

The Winter Soldier touches the gash in his side. The blood has stopped seeping through his fingers. It hurts, but it will heal. His double--his own self--can help, surely. How amazing, he thinks, to finally be touched after all this time. To be held. 

The Soldier pants out a name. His mask covers his mouth, so the sound comes out muffled, a bare whisper. His blood-soaked hand raises to release the clasp on the muzzle, but its opposite intercepts and forces it back down.

"Shh, no. Save your—" he chokes out. "Save your strength." 

The Soldier lets himself fold into this familiar body. He's safe now. He has a protector who will look after him. Together, maybe they can save themselves. They can share in freedom just as they share the same shape. 

He pulls back to look into his mirrored eyes and sees all the same fears, all the same rage that roils inside himself. It's a miracle, to find it in another. He wants to taste it, so he reaches once more for the muzzle's buckle, but he's denied a second time. "Don't," his twin warns. "I can't—" 

His eyes go red, tears threaten to spill. The Soldier understands; he cried in the beginning, when it hurt so much. They mocked him for it, the coats and the suits, but he would never do that to his own flesh. Survival: animal instinct. 

He fists his hand in his twin's long hair and presses close, covering him, keeping him warm in the cold. He is there, and he is real, and he says it without words.

"You don't understand," other-him sobs. 

That is true. But then again, what is there to understand? He was one, now he is two. They will be stronger this way, more efficient. To have a partner, someone to trust--someone to touch--is a gift.

He runs his hands down that smooth, bare back. Soon that skin may be filled with scars, he thinks. Who knows how much time they have before the coats and the suits try to separate them again? He needs to give his double what he himself has been missing for so long. 

He cups the back of his twin's thighs and lifts. He's strong, and his wound barely pains him as he walks, carrying his other self and coaxing his legs to wrap around his waist. The other him gasps at being lifted, at being pressed up against the cold steel of the wall. Tears are still running down his face; the Soldier rubs against him, cheek to cheek, wiping away the wetness with his facemask. Then he looks up, his eyes telegraphing his question.

The other him stares into his face, nods slowly. Between them, his cock--uncut, such a small difference--hangs heavy and hard. "Do it," he says. He arches in the Soldier's arms, naked and new. "Show me." 

Show me kindness? Show me mercy? The Soldier knows it doesn't matter. He'll give this fresh, unmarked body whatever he can. No time to remove his body armor; he uses his metal arm to support his other self while his flesh hand works open his fly. 

Strange how his body remembers this even though his mind can't. The press and friction of skin on skin, the heat generated by their open mouths, the sound of his own voice in his ear, drowning out all the others. He just presses the head of his cock to the other Soldier's hole and stays there, stopping himself from shoving in. 

"It's fine, do it," the second Soldier begs, but he won't, not even when he bites down on the thin edge of his ear. "I want you to." 

In this, he will not cause pain. For once. 

"Damn you." A sigh of longing. "God damn you, please." 

The Soldier uses his strength to lift and lower him now, teasing his cock at his hole. He shakes his head, supports him again one-handed and fists his cock with his right hand. Dried blood flakes between them. He feels lips on his temple, then his cheekbone just on the edge of his facemask. His mind scrambles to recall the name of this act. The word blossoms unsaid on his tongue: a kiss. 

The orgasm is pulled from his twin as if it pains him, a loud cry echoing off the walls. He follows soon after, messy on the backs of his thigh and the crack of his ass. They're both painted in the same seed, sweating the same stink, breathing in tandem with matched sets of lungs. 

The Winter Soldier lowers his other-self to the floor, holding him until his legs stop shaking.

"I'm so sorry," he says to the Soldier. His face is wet where it's pressed to his neck. "They said—" His voice drops to a hiss. "They said it was either you or me." 

Ah. The Winter Soldier's eyes fall shut. Of course. Why repair a broken tool when you can just replace it? A memory glimmers in the distance; yes, he should have known. But how could he have? They'd burned it out of him.

Through his tears, other-self unsheathes the knife from his thigh and holds it between them, a silver flash in the dark. "I'm sorry." 

He doesn't run. He doesn't fight. If he can't save himself, he'll do the next best thing. 

It's only with his help that the knifepoint finds its home between his ribs, slipping quietly into place. He stays on his feet as long as he can, leaning against the cool metal of another's shoulder. When he finally falls first to his knee, then to the floor, his reflection follows him, hand still on the knife, face a rictus of horror.

"I'm sorry, oh god, please—" 

The Winter Soldier paws at his muzzle with a slow hand, and his other-self understands and helps him unbuckle its straps. The black mask finally falls away, and the Soldier speaks. A name, just a whisper. He thinks it might be theirs. And then there is nothing, not even the cold.

When they come back for him, the Winter Soldier is dressed for combat. The body on the floor is naked and scarred. What a relief, they say. The first target is always the hardest one. 

The Winter Soldier doesn't say anything to that. He merely puts the mask over his mouth and waits silently for further orders.


End file.
